Ghost
by AngelsCanFly
Summary: Katie struggles to deal with Fred's death. Sad little one-shot.


**Ghost**

You could tell her house by the drawn blinds. The neighbours thought it unbecoming. People driving past thought it peculiar. She, however, thought nothing of it. Since his death, she no longer had any need for sunlight. Anything resembling warmth was unwelcome.

She sat upright in a bath full of chilled water, knees clutched to her thinning body. She didn't know how long she had been there, the clocks had stopped ticking hours ago. Her hair was long and uncombed. Her face was pale. Streaks of black outlined the tears that had burned her cheeks. Her eyes were empty and broken. She had no need for bubbles.

Her throat gargled in thirst and her stomach moaned in hunger, but she ignored them in her protest against living. If he had been there, she would have moved hours ago. He would have helped her. He would have rinsed her skin, lifted her out of the water, towelled her dry and forced a sweet cup of tea and bowl of cornflakes down her. But he was not there. She would have to wait till her strength returned, however long that may take.

Her eyes wandered around the small bathroom and memories flashed across her mind. The shattered mirror; she remembered throwing her bag across the room in anger. 7 years bad luck seemed a more bearable punishment than the one she had to endure. His toothbrush stood beside hers in a glass by the sink. It was the closest her mouth would ever get to his again. His shampoo and soap lay on the edge of the bath, unmoved and hardly touched. She lifted her arm for what seemed like the first time in days, pulled his soap towards her and breathed in the smell. It was him. She covered her skin in his scent and doused the bar in the water, making the smell hover in the air.

His wand lay by the sink. Old and battered, never to be used again. His family had wanted to bury him with it. She wanted to keep it. She had few trinkets to remember him by. Sure, she had all of his clothes and belongings, but nothing that actually meant anything important. That wand was a piece of him, and therefore a piece of her. She fingered the small gold band on her left hand. They would have been married that day. It was a simple ring; thin gold intertwined with some simple gem stones. "Sweet, just like you," that is what he had described it as. Not unique, but special in its own right.

After what seemed like a decade, she lumped her strength together and raised herself from the water. Her skin was shrivelled and thick with liquid. The tips of her fingers were numb. She walked, naked and wet through to what had been their bedroom. She did not care that she was dripping all over the cream carpet. She didn't have to clean up anymore. She lived alone now, and her mess was comfortable.

His clothes were still in his drawer, neatly folded as he had left them. Clean. She pulled his favourite jogging bottoms on. He used to wear them for quidditch practice. Old, worn and grey. He had grown out of them years ago, but had still insisted on keeping them. She has always nagged him to throw them away. In that moment, she knew she would never discard them. Then she slipped into his favourite jumper; grey again with a zip up the front and a hood hanging from the neck. Her wet body clung to the clothes. Her hair dripped black on grey. The jumper was so large it completely enveloped her hands. She pulled a thick red hair from the hem of the hood. The jumper hadn't been washed since he had left. A fresh tear began to trickle down her cheek. She didn't think it was possible to cry anymore. She was wrong.

She rubbed her eyes on the sleeves and sat down on the floor. Moving from one room to another had used a lot of energy, and she resumed her sitting posture in a new location. She would sit there until the clocks started to tick again.

From the other side of the bridge, he sat watching her, willing her to stand up. It felt like years had passed in this fashion. She would long for his presence, and he would long to show her he was still there. He wanted to touch her, but every time he had tried to he was unable to grasp anything but air. He wanted to wipe away her tears before they fell. He wanted to hold her body while it convulsed with sobs. He wanted her to feel him again, but he knew he would have to wait many years. He wished that when she spoke to him, as she often did, that he could answer. He would sell his soul to kiss her again. He gazed sadly down on her, white tears flecking his pale face. This was not the girl he loved. This was an empty shell. Through his eyes, she was more dead than he.


End file.
